Blood of the King - Khirro's Journey Book 1 Page 0,135
army had fallen back from the walls since Therrador’s arrival, moving all but a few trebuchets out of range of the Erechanian war machines. They still launched boulders to keep the Erechanian forces from venturing out of the fortress, but they did little damage at such a distance. Soldiers marveled at the effect having Therrador there had on the Kanosee. The king-to-be let them have their assumptions, but he alone knew the truth of it.
“I don’t like it, m’ Lord,” Sir Alton Sienhin had blustered of the Kanosee’s latest tactic as the two mounted their horses. “They’re up to something. I think it’s a mistake to take so many men from the wall.”
Therrador had steamed at his words. What good was a coronation if no one shared in it? What kind of king was crowned in secret? He managed to control his words as he answered.
“They will not advance again,” he said confidently. “They cower before our might.”
Sir Alton had moved as though he’d say something else but then thought better of it.
Sienhin rode to Therrador’s right and a length back followed by the royal guard and all those who’d make up the royal court—a hundred people in all, every one ahorse, clip-clopping along the lane, spilling into the courtyard beyond. More people lingered in the courtyard, cheering tentatively and cowering each time a boulder thumped the wall. Therrador guided his horse to the door of the great hall, waving half-heartedly. This wasn’t how he’d imagined things. In his mind, he saw rabid crowds cheering and hollering and Graymon, the future king of Erechania, riding at his side. His chest tightened. He missed the boy, prayed he was safe.
The doors swung inward and Therrador urged his charger across the threshold, the wind snapping his cape one last time before he passed into the still air of the columned hall. The click-clack of hooves bounced and echoed into the high ceiling as his horse high stepped on the marble tiles. They passed under archways and into the cavernous great hall, brightly lit by the sun beaming through its massive windows. More trumpeting announced his arrival, the notes ricocheting from one wall to another, collecting and multiplying in the lofty roof. The crowd filling the room exploded with cheers and whistles, whoops and hollers turning the fanfare into a cacophony.
This is more like it. A smile tugged at Therrador’s lips but the dread gnawing his gut extinguished it. Oh, how I miss my boy.
The ride through the hall met his expectations. Lord Emon Turesti had outdone himself with what little he had at his disposal, taking Therrador’s suggestions and expanding upon them. Trumpets called and answered, doves flew overhead to perch at the edges of the high columns, maidens cast flowers at the feet of his destrier. The rest of his party came behind, afoot as they’d dismounted before entering the hall so that Therrador was the only one still mounted. He raised his hand to the crowd; they cheered, tapped spears on the floor and swords on shields. A young girl broke from the crowd and rushed to his side to offer him a single white rose—a plant of Turesti’s, no doubt. He bent and took the flower from her, sniffed deeply of its sweet aroma before pushing it into the clasp holding his cape.
The short ride went too quickly. When they repeated the ceremony in Achtindel, he’d have Turesti arrange for the entire Street of Kings to be like this. That would be an appropriate reception for the deliverer of the kingdom. And, when the day came, Graymon’s reception would be even greater.
Therrador reined to a halt at the foot of the marble stairs, dismounted, and handed the lead to a squire. He climbed the steps, hand on sword to steady it as he forced a measured pace despite the urge he felt to rush up two at a time. Trumpets and cheers loud enough to drown out the clank of his armor followed him as he climbed.
At the top, High Confessor Aurna waited, the plain gray cloak of his order tied about his waist with a knot of golden cord. He watched without expression, hands tucked inside his sleeves, lips moving slightly as he recited some prayer or blessing. Therrador knew Aurna wore clothes richly adorned with gold beneath the plain robe and jewels hung about his neck. The High Confessor headed the rich and powerful church and took advantage of its wealth.